Honestly
by CeasedExistence
Summary: Honestly, you couldn’t blame her. Being told all of your life that you’re smart, brilliant even, the smartest person there is… well, no matter how hard you try, after awhile, you can’t help but to start agreeing, if only a little bit.


_AN: I have to stop writing oneshots and do the next chap for TFTF. Oops. Anyway, the idea behind this was how honesty is relative, and how people are rarely honest with themselves. Yeah, I'm tired... anyway, I hope you enjoy. I'll be watching the stats bar, so review please. They help kill writers block DEAD._

_Sorry, the new RAID commercial just came on. Carry on._

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**Honestly**

Honestly, she wasn't as smart as they said she was. She wasn't the 'most brilliant witch of her age', or a protégé, or a genius. She was just Hermione. And yet, everyone around her seemed to have forgotten that. And somehow, somewhere along the way, she forgot too.

Honestly, you couldn't blame her. Being told all of your life that you're smart, brilliant even, the smartest person there is… well, no matter how hard you try, after awhile, you can't help but to start agreeing, if only a little bit. Supposedly, pride is a sin. In a Shakespearian play, a man named Oedipious even tears his own eyes out because of it, although he calls it _hubris_ in context.

Honestly, it wasn't her fault. After all, there was only so much information a brain could hold, even one as large as hers. And with the amount of information she was constantly absorbing, like some mental bookworm sponge, something somewhere along the way had to be removed to make room for the new stuff. Old stuff, old test scores and memories of her time before Hogwarts were among the things to go. Perhaps the mistake was made when meeting dates and times with Harry and Ron were tossed out also, along with friend's birthdays and that it was time to feed Crookshanks.

Honestly, she was an important person now. She didn't have time for such trivial things as meeting her two best friends for a chilled butterbeer, or remembering to buy Ginerva a present, or absently wondering where Crookshanks had gone to; damn that cat, but she loved him, despite not being able to recall spending much time with him lately. But of course, time flies when you're having fun.

Honestly, she wasn't having that much fun. However, her parents were proud of her, and her friends understood that she was busy (even if Crookshanks was rather miffed; she hadn't seen him for several weeks now). So she kept going to formal dinners and doing public speeches, and just being famous in general. She traveled a lot, and didn't really see much of her friends anymore, but that was ok. People listened to her now, really listened. Things were getting done- S.P.E.W. had taken off wonderfully, and house elf abuse was much rarer than it used to be.

Honestly, it wasn't her fault that she couldn't see the people she cared about often anymore. Just like it wasn't her fault when she missed Harry and Ginny's wedding. And just like it wasn't her fault when her father had a heart attack and she couldn't go to the hospital because she was on her way to speak on her most recent BioMagical thesis paper. And just like it wasn't her fault when Harry and Ron stopped sending letters, and it wasn't her fault when eventually they refused all contact with her altogether- closely followed by Ginny and Luna and most of their other Hogwarts friends. It wasn't her fault that she didn't have time for her friends anymore; or patience, really. She found them rather juvenile compared to the sophisticated people from the dinner parties and award ceremonies… but that didn't matter anymore.

Honestly, there was no way she could have avoided this outcome; an older (but still attractive woman) sitting in an armchair in front of a crackling fire that does little to cheer up the room. Indeed, the rather dismal mist and drizzle outside the window seems to fit the mood better- if she's honest, that is. Wisps of hair escape the bun on the crown of her head, and a look around the poorly lit room reveals that the armchair is actually the only furniture in the room, aside from the picture frame she holds on one hand, with the hand holding a vial of softly glowing violet potion resting quietly beside it. The Draught of the Living Dead. Aptly named, or at least she hopes so. She has, after all, altered it slightly- just enough that they'll probably never be able to 'cure' her. She knows she's taking the easy way out, but she honestly just doesn't care. She's lost everything here, even her two best friends, although they really lost her, she muses, when they cut off contact with her 'because she wasn't reliable enough'. She lifts the vial to her lips and downs it in a breath. Just as quickly, she slumps over and the vial hits the floor and shatters. Just like the artery in her brain, but that's okay, because she's asleep and she doesn't feel a thing. Looks like she altered the potion just a little bit too much.

Honestly, though, it wasn't her fault.


End file.
